


These Conversations Kill

by GotTheSilver



Series: Supernatural Codas [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood, Coda, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Gen, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, M/M, Minor Injuries, POV Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 12:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6051598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTheSilver/pseuds/GotTheSilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>coda for 11.14</p><p>*</p><p>
  <i>“Gonna help me bring this stuff in?” Sam calls, ignoring the way Dean’s hand shakes when he reaches for the glass.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Not really up to it, Sammy,” Dean says, taking a long gulp from the glass.  “Get coffee?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Yeah.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Good.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>That’s the last thing Dean says all day.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Conversations Kill

**Author's Note:**

> episode coda for 11.14 so obvious spoilers.
> 
> the dean/cas is mostly implied but informs how Dean is in this fic.
> 
> title stolen from Stone Temple Pilots - Big Empty.

The drive back to the bunker is silent, Dean not even switching music on to cover the silence, and it’s that, more than anything, that tells Sam his brother isn’t coping. Dean being in denial about Cas’ choices isn’t something new—Sam doesn’t know much about what happened in Purgatory, but he knows there were at least two different stories about what went down when Dean got out—but this is different because Sam _knows_ the truth.

When they get back, Dean grabs a bottle from the kitchen and stalks off to his room. Sam knows better at this point than to follow him and try to talk. Whatever Dean needs to do, Sam’s not going to interfere, at least, not yet. Looking around at the mess that was left behind after Cas—Lucifer—threw them around, Sam sighs and starts to clean up. He’s in the middle of wiping his blood off the wall when he stops, dropping the rag in the bucket of pinkish water and sits on the floor wondering how the hell they’re going to make it out of this one.

*

Dean doesn’t surface in the morning. Sam’s up earlier than he’d like to be, and he takes one of the cars, drives to the next town over and picks up groceries, stocking up on coffee because if Dean ever sobers up he’s going to need it.

Sam stops in the middle of the aisle and stares at the peanut butter, flashes of conversations with Cas coming back to him, and he pushes the memories aside, grabbing the brand nearest to him and throwing it into the cart.

Loading the bags into the trunk of the car, Sam glances across the street at the liquor store and pauses. Dean’s almost certainly finished the bottle he took with him, and Sam doesn’t want to think about what else he has stashed in the bunker. He’s not replenishing Dean’s supply, if Dean wants more alcohol he can get it himself. It’s the easiest way to get Dean to sober up; he’s not gonna risk the impala driving drunk, there’s lines even Dean won’t cross.

Sam takes the long way back. He used to do this with Dean back before he left for Stanford; if dad was too much to handle that day, they’d go for a drive under the pretence of picking something up, and take their time heading back to whatever motel they were staying in. Dad would be mad, but Dean—he just took the abuse. Never fought back.

The bunker’s quiet when he comes inside, but Sam can see Dean at the table, laptop open. He’s hunched over, robe on, and a glass full of whiskey by his hand.

“Gonna help me bring this stuff in?” Sam calls, ignoring the way Dean’s hand shakes when he reaches for the glass.

“Not really up to it, Sammy,” Dean says, taking a long gulp from the glass. “Get coffee?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

That’s the last thing Dean says all day.

*

The only reason Sam knows that Dean isn’t sleeping is because he isn’t sleeping either. He’s staring up at the ceiling in his sparse room unable to stop wondering where they went wrong, why Cas thought this was the only way to help them. There’s a guilt that’s clawing at his gut because even though he knows he made the right choice—that he couldn’t live with letting Lucifer near him again—Sam can’t help but wonder if that makes him weak. If he’d been stronger, if he’d been willing to take on Lucifer, if—.

His dad didn’t hold truck with ‘what ifs’, and Sam knows that if he had let Lucifer in, Dean would be the same goddamn wreck he is now, but he can’t switch his brain off.

There’s a stumbling in the hall that Sam’s been hearing all night; Dean walking the halls like an alcoholic ghost, and Sam flinches when he hears glass shattering followed by Dean swearing loudly. Getting out of bed, Sam slips an old pair of sneakers on before opening his door. Dean’s on the floor, blood seeping out from a nasty cut on his leg, and he’s poking at it numbly.

“Dean?”

“Got hurt.”

“I can see that,” Sam says, crouching down and carefully moving the shattered glass over to the side. “Jesus, Dean, you smell like a distillery.” He grabs Dean’s forearm, trying to stop him from touching the wound. “Stop, okay?”

“Why?”

“Because you’re hurting yourself.”

Dean snorts, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter. Can’t feel it.”

“Stay here,” Sam says. “And don’t touch your cut.”

“Aye aye,” Dean mumbles, slumping against the wall. He’s staring off into nothing, and Sam doesn’t want to think about how much Dean has had to drink in order to get to this state. Standing up, Sam heads into the bathroom to grab supplies, trying to be quick so that Dean’s not left alone for too long.

When he gets back, Dean’s still against the wall, his eyes closed now, and Sam kneels in front of him, pulling his leg forward.

“Wha—”

“It’s me.”

Dean grunts and doesn’t say anything, so Sam cleans up the cut, taking some small satisfaction in the way Dean hisses when he pokes it to make sure there’s no glass embedded in it. Despite the amount of blood, it’s not deep enough to need stitches, so Sam bandages it up and wipes his hands down his already blood stained shirt. “Are you planning on sobering up anytime soon?”

“Nope.”

“Great, that’s... great, Dean.”

“S’point? Can’t kill Amara, lost Cas to that dickbag—”

“That’s not—”

“M’so tired, Sammy,” Dean says, blinking like he’s trying to focus. “Why’d he do it?”

“Why did—Cas?”

Dean signs, his head thunking against the wall with a sickening noise. “My fault, p’robly.”

“Dean.”

“Should’ve told him—ouch.”

Sam rolls his eyes at the delayed reaction and stands up, wrapping his hand around Dean’s forearm and pulling him to his feet. “Try not to give yourself a concussion.”

“That’d be bad.” Dean pushes away from Sam, swaying a little as he tries to find his balance.

It’s been a long time since Sam’s seen Dean like this and he really hasn’t missed it. “Can you make it back to bed?”

“Can’t sleep.”

“Yeah, well, join the club.”

In his drunkenness, Dean seems to find that hilarious, laughing so hard that Sam has to grab his shoulders to stop him from walking straight into the pile of broken glass. Dean’s already walked through the rotgut whiskey that had obviously been in the glass when it was dropped, but that’s his own problem. Sam doesn’t think he can take bandaging up another wound tonight.

Dean stops laughing and looks at him. “Sammy?”

“Yes?”

“S’my fault. All of this. Amara, Cas, Lucifer.”

“So what?” When Sam says that, Dean furrows his brow like he can’t understand what Sam’s saying and Sam can’t take this anymore. “I don’t care,” Sam says with exaperation. “It doesn’t matter who’s fault it was, or wasn’t, or whatever. All that matters is we try and fix this goddamn thing.”

“How?”

“I don’t know,” Sam says. “But I can’t do it alone, Dean, and I can’t do it with you like this.”

Dean’s silent, and when Sam glances down, he can see Dean’s hands shaking. “I let him down, Sammy. I didn’t—I should’ve—I never said—”

And suddenly it hits Sam, why Dean’s so goddamn broken over this, why he didn’t want to believe Cas took Lucifer in voluntarily, why he can’t see a way out. “Dean—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But—”

“Sam.”

“Fine. But I’d say that what you’re feeling gives you even more of a reason to sober the fuck up and help me.”

Dean shakes his head. “Asshole.”

“Learnt from the best. You need to sleep, Dean.”

“Yeah.” Dean scrubs a hand through his hair, making a face when he sees his fingers covered in blood. “I need a shower.”

“Not until you’re sober enough not to brain yourself on the tile.”

“M’sorry, Sammy.”

“I know,” Sam says, giving Dean a gentle push in the direction of his room.

When Dean opens the door, Sam’s hit by the stench of stale alcohol, and after Dean’s on the bed, Sam picks up the empty bottles and stacks them up in the hall. By the time Sam’s done, Dean’s passed out on top of his blankets, snoring loudly, and if Sam were still the praying kind, he’d send one up that his brother doesn’t choke on his own vomit. As it is, he collects the bottles, ditches them in the kitchen, fills a glass with water, and grabs a bucket.

When he makes it back to Dean’s room, Dean’s murmuring in his sleep, and Sam tries his hardest not to listen as he puts the glass on Dean’s bedside table and the bucket on the floor. It’s a mess of apologies and Cas’ name, and Sam shouldn’t be hearing this, he knows he shouldn’t.

Leaving Dean, Sam stumbles back into the hall, groggy with lack of sleep, and takes off his ruined shirt, using it to wipe up the spilt whiskey and collect the broken glass. Ditching it all in the trash, Sam heads to the bathroom, washing the blood and whatever else off his hands, before finally heading back to bed.

When he lays down, the guilt is still there, a weight in his gut that claws at him each time he thinks about the effort Cas made to save him, the way Cas let Lucifer take him over again to save Dean. Sam knows exactly how much fight it took for Cas to overpower Lucifer to stop him from getting his hands on Sam’s soul, and the fact that Cas—.

Sam’s not sure how they let it get this bad that Cas thought he had to prove his worth to them, but Dean’s right about one thing; they fucked up. Cas never should’ve had to make this choice, he should be with them, fighting side by side, not being used as a puppet by Lucifer.

Not getting him back isn’t an option, and not just because Sam doesn’t want to watch his brother drink himself to death. Cas belongs with them. He’s family.

*

The next morning, Sam finds Dean in the kitchen making breakfast, a pot of coffee percolating on the side. It’s the fastest turn around Sam’s ever seen his brother make, and he stands there watching Dean fry bacon.

“Gonna stand there forever?” Dean finally asks, glancing over at Sam. He looks like shit, bags under his eyes, unshaved, and sallow skin, but he’s sober.

“Depends. Gonna make me eggs as payment for looking after your drunken ass?” Sam walks in, pouring himself a mug of coffee. It’s strong, but he can’t blame Dean for needing that to get him through the morning.

“Shut up.”

“How’s your leg?” Sam asks, sitting at the table.

“Sore,” Dean says, cracking eggs into the pan and scrambling them up. “Probably deserve it.”

“I wasn’t gonna say it.”

Dean doesn’t say anything in response, fills two plates with bacon and eggs and puts one in front of Sam. Sitting down opposite Sam, Dean eats quickly, washing it down with gulps of coffee, and normally Sam would make fun of his eating habits, but he’s too exhausted to make the effort.

“How are we going to do this?” Dean says, eventually. “Get Cas back?”

“Honestly? I don’t know.” Sam leans back in his chair, hand wrapped around his half filled mug. “We will, though.”

“That’s some blind optimism you’ve got going there.”

“What else is there at this point, Dean? We’ve got nothing else.”

“Well, you’re right about that.” Dean gets up, walking over to pour himself another mugful of coffee. “Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks,” he says quietly, not facing Sam. “For not—what I said last night—”

“We’re getting him back, Dean,” Sam interrupts. “We _will_ get him back.”

Dean turns around, his feelings written across his face, and it’s times like this Sam wishes his brother wasn’t so easy to read. Dean opens his mouth like he’s going to respond, but instead he sets his jaw, nods at Sam once and walks out of the room with his coffee.

Running his hands through his hair, Sam gets up and busies himself with cleaning up the kitchen. He’s got absolutely no idea how they’re going to get Cas back, but he can’t let himself think about the alternative. Sam remembers how empty, alone, and afraid he felt with Lucifer, how each second with him was like being burned alive, the very essence of his being getting ripped to shreds. The longer they leave Cas alone with Lucifer, the worse it’s going to be when they get him back; he’s fighting Lucifer now, but Sam knows how easily that strength can be beaten back by Lucifer, how Lucifer can use his words to prey on every insecurity Cas has.

For all that Sam’s telling Dean that they’ll get Cas back, he fears that it’s going to come down to Cas being strong enough to expel Lucifer, to Cas having a reason to come back to them. He doesn’t want to think about what will happen if Cas feels he doesn’t have that reason.

“Hang on Cas,” Sam whispers in a prayer that he knows won’t be heard. “Please.”


End file.
